Those Sweet Cliches
by PitFTW
Summary: A truly special relationship: Alfred, Arthur, and all of our favorite cliches.


_I. Under the Table_

The Kingdom of Spades has never spared any expense when it comes to royal balls. Tonight is no different; it is the first night when the next heirs to the three thrones – Jack, Queen, and King – would be presented before the kingdom. Every citizen, be they a noble or a commoner, is invited to attend.

This night is the night when those on the thrones hire all of the tailors, cobblers, and hairdressers in the kingdom to create fine outfits so that, even for this one night, everyone who attends may feel like Spadian royalty. Every cook and baker are set to work creating a lavish banquet. The finest musicians are brought together, some in groups, others as soloists, and music fills every inch of the royal ballroom.

For 12-year-old Alfred of House Jones, however, this is a nerve-wracking night. Tonight, he would not only meet the two people he would shoulder the burdens of the kingdom with, but also his future betrothed. For some reason or another, it has been long judged that the King and Queen of Spades are to be married the moment they are both 18 or older. This is to ensure that the kingdom prospers and that these two royals have the strongest of bonds.

It is rare for the King and Queen to fall in love, but at the very least, every pair has been civil to each other. They are raised with the knowledge that their marriage is for the good of Spades, and any sign of great dissent means that the kingdom itself is weak. Alfred, wild and free as he is, fears the very concept of marriage; how can he tie himself down before he has truly seen the world?

He moves his arm gingerly, grumbling when the fabric of his suit jacket strains against the movement. He feels too stiff and too hot and too cold. He wants to rip off these royal garments and go carousing in the fields. There is a horse in the stable with his name on it. He doesn't want to do this. He barely even knows how to dance!

The final touch of the outfit, an ornate blue mask studded with many precious stones, soon enters his vision. He holds still while the maids place it on his face and secure it with a tight leather strap. The current King of Spades had insisted on holding a masquerade ball, making it a bit of a game for the new Jack, Queen, and King to find each other amongst the glittering and laughing crowd. Alfred loves games, but he hates balls; perhaps he would be able to sneak away?

The maids lead him out into the ballroom without announcement, as announcing the new candidates for King, Queen, and Jack would take the fun out of the game. Alfred soon finds himself alone among a sea of jewel-colored skirts and beautifully pressed tailcoats, staring at lovely peacock and butterfly masks. His own mask – blue with falcon's feathers and shaped like the head of the bird – sits uncomfortably on his face. He reaches up to fuss with it, only to sigh in defeat when he realizes he's making things worse. Well then, off to find the Queen and Jack.

His first stop, of course, is the snack table. Here, every cook and baker in the kingdom has piled it high with sweets and savories. He steals more than his fair share of cookies and cakes, as well as lovely candies and a large turkey leg. Not wanting to fuss with his mask anymore in public, he dives under the table to enjoy his treat.

And immediately knocks into a boy already hiding underneath it.

The turkey leg and candies fall to the floor, much to Alfred's dismay. Among them are a large assortment of cookies and what looks like various berries and pieces of bread. The boy – dressed in a lovely purple outfit with matching cape and top hat – quickly adjusts his purple lion's masks and scowls. Alfred nearly gawks at the large eyebrows poking up from underneath the mask.

"Watch where you're going!" the boy hisses, gesturing to the mess around them. "You made me spill my food!"

"What? No!" Alfred says loudly, only to immediately be shushed by the other boy. " _You_ made _me_ spill my food!"

"I was under here first," the boy says. "You came in after me, so therefore, it's your fault."

"Oh yeah? Well… what were you doing under here anyway? Were you trying to steal food?"

"Of course not! I was-" the boy hesitates, looking right at Alfred's face. For the first time, the future king notices the other's eyes. Green, like summer leaves, filled with child-like wonder. They're perhaps the prettiest eyes Alfred has ever seen. "I was feeding the fairies…"

"What?" Alfred blinks in confusion and looks around, searching for the offending creatures. When he sees nothing, he turns back to the boy, raising an eyebrow in confusion. "What fairies?"

"Well, of course you can't see them right now, you scared them away," the boy says matter-of-factly. "They turn invisible when they're scared. But when they're not, they're really nice creatures. Flying Mint Bunny especially. They are shy of humans, though, so they don't usually come to parties."

"So how come they let you feed them?" Alfred asks. He is the future king, after all! He should get to know all of his subject, human or otherwise.

The boy pauses for a moment before looking away, cheeks dusted with red. "They… don't know you yet. So they probably think you're scary." A pause. "I can introduce you to them, if you want. They're out in the rose garden right now. That's where they usually go if they're scared."

"Oh? Then let's go!" Alfred says cheerfully, reaching out to take the boy's hand. The boy lets out a squawk of protest but doesn't let go as Alfred pulls him out from underneath the table, away from prying eyes, and leads the way to the rose garden. The boy's touch is soft, yet firm, slightly calloused from what feels like hard labor. It's warm and welcoming, however, like a gently roaring fire in one of the palace's fireplaces.

"But… the ball," the boy says. "What about the ball?"

"I'm bored of the ball. It's just a big fancy party for fancy adults to get together. Your friends sound a lot more fun," Alfred says. He looks over his shoulder, a wide grin on his face. "Unless you're scared that your friends aren't actually fun and you lied to me the whole time?"

The words seem to light a fire behind the boy's eyes. He yanks back his hand and stands still, hands on his hips. "I'll have you know that my friends are super fun! More fun than any of the boring people here. I'll prove it to you too. You'll have so much fun that you'll never want to go to a ball ever again!"

"Oh yeah? Well bring it on then," Alfred says cheerfully, now finding himself being led to the gardens. The boy in front of him lets out a huff, though the corners of his mouth turn up into a small smile. Alfred grins back, enjoying the look very much on the other boy. At the very least, he's glad to have made a friend here at the ball.

"My name's Alfred, by the way," he says, realizing for the first time that 'the boy' ought to have a name. "What's yours?"

"Good to meet you, Alfred. I'm Arthur."

Oh yes, he's made a very good friend indeed.

* * *

 _II. Teacher and Student_

"Now, Shakespeare's got a rather interesting sense of humor here," Professor Arthur Kirkland says as he taps his open book. "'All the world's a stage/And all the men and women merely players:/They have their exits and their entrances;/And one man in his time plays many parts,/His acts being seven ages.' When taking the character Jacques into consideration, how would the Bard want a reader to interpret the tone of this passage?"

No answer. Arthur frowns and turns around to regard his class, his prodigious eyebrows lowering into a scowl. For the most part, the students are half-awake at best. Quite a few of them look – and smell - like they had quite a few smokes before coming to class. Even more of them look downright hungover. One of them is fast asleep! If it were not for the fact that he is well on-track to a tenured position and, eventually, the opportunity to teach upper-divisions instead of a million lower-division classes.

Arthur lets out a small sigh as he looks around the room, then walks up to the snoring student. He stands there for a moment, watching the boy's golden hair flutter gently with each breath, before clearing his throat. The student remains unmoved, mumbling a bit in his sleep about cheeseburgers falling from the sky. Impatient, Arthur raps his knuckles against the desk, but once again, the student snores on. He can already hear the sniggers from the rest of the class.

"Jones!" Arthur shouts sharply, causing the boy to jolt up. His silver-rimmed glasses are askew on his youthful, handsome face. His blue eyes are dark and lined with sleepiness. It takes all of Arthur's willpower not to stare for too long. _Damn it all_. Why must he be cursed with such a beauty in his class!?

"Wazgoingun?" the boy asks sleepily, rubbing his eyes. He takes one look around the room before casting his blue-eyed gaze up at Arthur, blinking owlishly. "Somethin' up, Prof?"

Arthur lets out a huff, already feeling a migraine beginning to bloom. "Glad you're awake to join us, Mr. Jones. Would you perhaps like to enlighten us on your interpretation of Jacques' monologue from Act 2, scene 7?"

For a moment, Alfred only stares. Then, he glances down at the book on his desk. A bit of drool shines from the page. Arthur crosses his arms impatiently as the boy squints down at it, as though seeing it for the first time. Just as he's about to walk away and write Alfred off as a pretty face without anything going on upstairs, however, Alfred speaks.

"I mean… seems like it's a pretty sarcastic kinda thing," he says. "A lotta people tend to read it like it's some sort of inspirational and deep thought, but… we know that this Jacques dude isn't exactly the deep philosopher he wants to make himself. He's more like a wannabe edgy goth or something, spewing out lines like this because he thinks it sounds cool. So I guess Shakespeare is kind of making fun of how overdramatic Jacques and a bunch of other wannabe philosophers tend to be with this." A pause. "Right?"

For perhaps the first time since the semester began, Arthur is staring open-mouthed at a student's response. How is this possible? As far as he knows (or cares to know), his students are merely here for a general ed. class. Barely any of them know how to tie their own shoes, let alone do a close-reading and interpretation of one of Shakespeare's works. It is with new and perhaps too admiring eyes for Jones that he takes a step back and lets out a breath he realizes only now that he was holding.

"That's… a very astute observation, Jones," he says.

The smile he receives is beautiful, movie-star brilliant. It's the sort of smile that would engrave itself in any bitter old professor's heart. "Thanks, Prof!"

Arthur spends the rest of the class a bit flustered, the image of Alfred's brilliant smile still ingrained in his head. It is nearly a godsend for him when he looks up at the clock in the back of the classroom and realizes it is time to end class. He waits at the door as the students file out, saying his goodbyes and even shaking a few hands. Alfred is the last to leave, and he seems to linger, waiting as Arthur answers a few more questions and waves goodbye to a few young women.

"I really enjoyed class, Professor Kirkland," Alfred says as he reaches out to shake Arthur's hand. Arthur hesitates for a moment as he stares at the offered hand, then relents and takes it in a warm, firm grip.

"I must say, you surprised me, Jones-"

"Alfred."

"Alfred. You have a very nice sense of interpretation."

Again, that brilliant smile flashes across Alfred's face. "Lit was my favorite subject in high school. It was really… lit."

Arthur rolls his eyes at the pun. "Indeed. Literature is a field of study so few take up now. It's truly refreshing to find that there are students out there still interested in it."

"Yeah. I'd like to talk more if you don't mind. The two of us," Alfred says. He tilts his head. "You have office hours, right? Mind if I visit?"

No, he wants to say. Office hours are for work, not pleasure. His students only come to them right before finals, when they realize that they grade they are getting is not up to snuff. It's not yet time for him to speak to students, to argue with pre-meds over a single plus or minus-

"Of course. I look forward to visiting with you," his heart stutters ever so slightly as Alfred flashes that beautiful smile again before walking away. Arthur watches him leave, then lets out a sigh, willing his flaming cheeks to cool off. This will be a very, very difficult semester.

* * *

 _III. Two Idiot Rivals_

"Bonnefoy's got the Quaffle! He's flying towards the goals… dodges a Bludger… and he scores! 10 points for Slytherin!"

It's so hard not to get distracted, especially with so much excitement going on. But for 15-year-old Ravenclaw Seeker Alfred F. Jones, it's an almost normal occurrence. By now, his team captain has all but given up on keeping the American wizard's attention. He simply has to accept that, when it comes down to it, Alfred will spot and catch the Snitch. After all, Ravenclaw has won the Quidditch House cup for the past four years thanks to Alfred's quick eye and reflexes. He simply has to trust Alfred.

"A bit distracted, are we, Jones?" a voice behind him asks.

Alfred looks over his shoulder, a cheerful smile spreading over his face when he faces the other boy on a broom. Arthur Kirkland, Slytherin Seeker, raises a large eyebrow at him. Without missing a beat, Alfred flies his broom closer to Kirkland, the sweet smell of black tea, roses, and mint filling his nostrils. He hasn't smelt anything this good since Professor Slughorn showed his class the mysterious love potion, Amortentia.

"Look who's talking, Kirkland," Alfred says. "Shouldn't you be trying to find the Snitch? Then again…" he smirks. "I bet your giant brows make huge blind spots. Must be a huge problem for a Seeker, huh?"

When they were younger, Arthur would have sputtered and said something about Alfred's weight or eating habits. This was usually accompanied by a lot of sniggers from any surrounding classmates and Arthur stomping away, red in the face and obviously planning revenge. Alfred would then find himself at the end of a small, inconvenient, and somewhat petty prank. Arthur's little pranks against Alfred have grown more creative over the years – but ever since they entered their third year and Alfred managed to save Arthur from getting beheaded by an especially errant first-year, their relationship has mellowed quite a bit.

"And I'm surprised that your broomstick can float with all of that weight on it," Arthur says calmly, crossing his slim legs in midair. Alfred glances down briefly, then back up at those pretty green eyes. He has never noticed before how well Arthur's eyes match his emerald Quidditch robes. "Then again, I hear in America they're producing plus-size brooms for plus-size players. Must everything always be bigger over there?"

"Bigger is better," Alfred laughs. "'sides, a bigger broom will let me knock you off your itty-bitty stick. Quidditch games in America are so much more fun. We're actually _allowed_ to tackle people off their brooms."

"That sounds like a good way to injure someone."

Alfred shrugs. "Cushioning charms and lots of padding. Kinda like our football." A pause. "… You should come over and watch sometime. You might actually have fun for once."

Once again, Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Oh? Are you perhaps inviting me over to your home, Mr. Jones?" without warning, the Briton flies closer to him, lids half-lowered, smirk on his lips. He's so close that their broomsticks are touching, their breaths mingling lightly. "Wouldn't you rather invite a pretty Gryffindor or Ravenclaw girl instead?"

Alfred grins, his heart hammering as he grips his broomstick until his knuckles turn white. "I… My wand doesn't swing that way."

"Mm…" is the only response Arthur gives as he leans in. Their lips touch-

And then, Arthur pulls away, grinning as he holds up one hand in victory, a gleam of gold in his palm. Alfred stares open-mouthed, his lips still tingling, wanting more than anything to be angry, but finding himself completely unable to. The roar of teachers and students alike fills his ears, but all he can think of is how _amazing_ this upcoming summer will be.

"Kirkland catches the Snitch! Slytherin wins!"

* * *

 _IV. Some Cheesy Notes_

 _Dearest Alfred,_

 _A golden crown, a smile bright_

 _A pair of pink lips bathed in starlight._

 _A hand to hold, a shoulder to give_

 _A reason for all to smile and live._

 _You are the sun, winking at the moon._

 _You are the music, the melodic tune._

 _You are my stars, my world, my all._

 _A reason to live, a reason to fall._

 _Love,_

 _Arthur_

 _Dear Artie,_

 _Roses are red, violets are blue_

 _Your eyes are green_

 _And you are cute._

 _Love,_

 _Alfred_

 _Are you serious right now? Blue and cute don't rhyme at all!_

 _I'm not good at this poem stuff. : ( I failed English lit, remember?_

 _I do recall spending several hours a week tutoring you on that subject. Did you seriously forget everything?_

 _Maybe. Don't judge me! I have to remember more important stuff right now. : (_

 _You are absolutely hopeless sometimes, you know that?_

 _Yeah, but you love me anyways._ _3_

 _I do._ _And to this day, I curse myself for falling for the trick behind those blue eyes and that beautiful smile._

 _D'awww. You love me so much. :') Btw, I think the teacher's looking this way._

 _Well then stop passing notes, idiot!_

 _You stop first._

 _Stop responding to me._

 _No, you._

 _Really? How immature of you._

 _Still doing it! ; )_

 _You're going without sex tonight if this behavior doesn't stop._

 _Well, then I guess I'll have to stop now. I like big dicks and I canno-_

* * *

 _V. A Surprise Proposal_

When England steps off of the plane that fine spring morning, it is with a light step and a tune on his lips. It's been months since he had last seen America, and the thought of that boy rushing up to meet him is enough to send his heart a-flutter. Judging from America's Snapchat, he's waiting for England near the baggage carousel. That is all well and good; America is likely antsy as well. England wouldn't be surprised if the boy had been waiting for him since the moment England took off from his own airport.

The man that awaits him at the baggage carousel, however, is not America. He looks very much like the man, but by now, England is well-aware of the many little differences between them. It's strange to see Canada so far down south when he has much going on in his own country, but it's with a smile nonetheless that England greets him. Canada opens up his arms and engulfs England in a warm bear hug – a trait that both the North American Brothers share.

"It's good to see you, lad," England says when they pull apart. Canada's glasses are lightly fogged and somewhat crooked. He adjusts them a bit before stepping back to allow Canada to pick up his bag – Canada's own physical strength rivals America's, he sometimes forgets – and lead him to the car. "I must admit, I didn't expect to see you here."

"Heh. Well, America had some things to set up. He procrastinated on them, and you know how that goes," Canada shakes his head. "I kept telling him too to not leave it until the last moment, but you know how he is. He just keeps going and going and going but never gets it done until the very end…"

"He was always like that," England says, the memory of bygone days flashing before his eyes. "I tell him to clean something, go out for a few hours… and then when I come home, it's only half done and he's broken three things along the way."

Canada laughs. "Yeah. Or even now, when we have the World Meetings and he's actually making his PowerPoints while the rest of you are talking."

It's now England's turn to laugh. "Or even when he attempts to look more grown-up and take me on some dates… we always end up late to the theatre or to our reservation because he doesn't get ready until a minute or so before we have to leave."

"Typical America," Canada says, running a hand through his hair. He needs a haircut, England cannot help but think. "But well, then again, he wouldn't be him if he didn't come in at the last minute. Makes him look more heroic in his eyes."

"And where would we be without the world's hero?" England asks. He glances briefly out the window and frowns. They are not on the road towards one of America's stately manors. Nor are they headed to any of his condos or townhomes dotted among the many states. "Canada? I think you've made the wrong turn somewhere. I do believe we were supposed to make a left back there-"

"Oh, yeah, about that," Canada says. There's a strange look in those violet eyes. England turns to face him more fully, raising an eyebrow. "America wanted to meet up with you somewhere other than his place… and he roped me in to help him." A small smile curves onto Canada's face. "Normally, I'd make him pay me in hockey tickets first, but… well, this is a favor for him."

That cheesy bastard. England snorts and rolls his eyes. "If he wanted to set up a cheesy romantic date, then he should've enlisted France's help. That frog doesn't know a lot of things, but what even I must admit is that he knows quite a bit about romance."

"Well, I never said I was the only one he talked to," Canada says cryptically. Before England can ask, however, he stops the car in front of what looks like a wide-open field. "We're here."

The grass here is very green, yet very overgrown. England finds himself stepping more carefully than usual. There are rabbit holes everywhere, and delicate little weeds reaching towards the sunlight. This is the very opposite of what England would imagine for a romantic picnic or walk in a park.

He finds America and France standing together in the center of the field. Or, well, France is standing. America is sitting on the ground, getting dirt all over his trousers. As England approaches, he looks up and leans back, revealing the small white rabbit nestled in his lap. When he sees England and Canada, he carefully picks up the rabbit and hands it to France, who begins gently scratching the creature behind his ears.

England stops in front of America, smiling up at the boy. He sees that France has a basket slung over one arm, but it doesn't look big enough for a picnic for two, let alone four. Still, he's happy to see America, happy to see that handsome, boyish face lit up in happiness – and nervousness.

"Hey."

"Hullo," England says. He clears his throat as he looks around. "… Hardly a place for a romantic picnic, is it?"

"You don't recognize this place?" America asks. The tone of his voice is tinged with confusion… and a little bit of sadness. England frowns up at the other nation and looks around.

It's a wide-open field of green grass. There are rabbit holes and weeds everywhere. A slight breeze is blowing through the field, and there are so many clouds in the sky. It's a familiar setting, but he's seen million of fiends of grass before in his centuries of existence. How is this one any-

Oh.

How could he be so stupid?

"This… is where we met, isn't it?" England asks quietly. He doesn't need America's nod to know he is right.

"Right over here," America says, gesturing to a small patch where no grass grows. His voice shakes as he speaks. "I… I didn't want this field to get built on. So I never let anyone build on it. It's basically a historical landmark, but… well, no one really knows the meaning of it. No one except us four. It means so damn much to me, and-"

"America," France says quietly, "The drinks are getting cold."

"O-Oh, right," America says. Then, he clears his throat and faces England fully. For the first time, England becomes completely aware of Canada's and France's presence. Why are they here? Why did America bring him to this field? Why the bunny? Why the rabbit holes and weeds and picnic basket full of alcohol and-

America kneels in front of him. He reaches into the pocket of that ratty old bomber jacket and pulls out a box. England stops breathing completely. His heart stutters. His hands shake. Tears spring to his eyes.

"England," America says. He's looking up at England with those beautiful blue eyes, peering up at him through silver-rimmed glasses. They're smudged and a bit crooked. One of the screws needs changing. He's never looked so beautiful before. "I told you before. I'm not your little brother. I'm not your colony. I wanted to stand with you as an equal. Even though I hurt you so much, you granted me my selfish request and came to see me as both. You've given so much to me, and I can only hope that I've given to you even half of that. You're my everything. My sun, my rain, my guardian, my partner, and the reason I can even hope of being a hero."

England's openly sobbing now. He barely registers as Canada presses a tissue in his hand, as France adjusts his phone slightly to record at a better angle. America hooks his fingers under the room of the box and gently pries it open, revealing the simple gold ring underneath. Gold, like the color of his hair, like the glittering heart that lies beneath America's bold courage and heroic acts.

"I'm a selfish man. I know I am. And you are the most selfless person in the world. But if you'll just grant me this selfish request one last time, then I promise you, I'll spend the rest of our existence making sure that, as selfless as you are, you know that you can be a little selfish too. Arthur Kirkland, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, I'm begging you now… will you marry me?"

What else can he say?

"Yes."


End file.
